The Kill Artist

buzzes, but this time it was the voice of Shamron on the line.
    "Jacqueline? Is that really you? Where are you?"
    "I'm not sure. Somewhere in Brooklyn, I think."
    "Hold on. I'll get your exact address from headquarters."
    "Don't leave me alone!"
    "I'm not. I'm right here."
    She began to cry.
    "What happened?"
    "Tariq's out there somewhere! He's disguised as a waiter. He looks totally different from Montreal. He was going to use the secure link to lure Gabriel into a trap, but I killed Leila with a nail file and her gun."
    She realized she probably sounded like a hysteric.
    "Is the girl there now?"
    "Yes, right next to me, on the floor. Oh, Ari, it's horrible."
    "You have to get out of there. Just tell me one thing: Do you know where Tariq is going?"
    "No."
    Just then she heard heavy footfalls in the stairwell.
    Shit!
    She whispered, "Someone's coming!"
    "Get out of there!"
    "There's only one way out."
    She heard knocking at the door: two crisp blows that seemed to shake the entire apartment.
    "Ari, I don't know what to do."
    "Be quiet and wait."
    Three more knocks, harder still. No more footsteps. Whoever was out there hadn't left yet.
    She was unprepared for the next sound: a violent thud, followed by the crackle of splintering wood. The noise was so loud that Jacqueline expected to see several people charge into the room, but it was only one man-the man who had appeared in the doorway that morning when Tariq brought her into the building.
    He held a baseball bat in his clenched fists.
    Jacqueline dropped the receiver. The man looked down at Leila's body, then at Jacqueline. Then he raised the bat and started running toward her. Jacqueline leveled the gun and squeezed off two shots. The first struck him high in the shoulder, spinning him around. The second tore into the center of his back, severing his spinal cord. She moved forward and fired two more shots.
    The room was filled with gun smoke and the smell of powder, the walls and floor spattered with blood. Jacqueline bent down and picked up the telephone.
    "Ari?"
    "Thank God it's you. Listen carefully, Jacqueline. You have to get out of there now."
    "No shit, Ari! Where do I go?"
    "Apparently, you're at the corner of Parkville Avenue and East Eighth Street in Brooklyn."
    "That doesn't mean shit to me."
    "Leave the building and walk to Parkville Avenue. Make a left turn onto Parkville and walk to Coney Island Avenue. At Coney Island Avenue make a right turn. Do not cross Coney Island. Stay on that side of the street. Keep walking. Someone will pick you up."
    "Who?"
    "Just do as I say, and get out of there now!"
    The line went dead.
    She dropped the receiver onto the floor and picked up her coat, which was lying on the floor next to the bed. She pulled on the coat, slipped the gun into the front pocket, and walked quickly out. She followed Shamron's instructions and a moment later was walking past the storefronts of Coney Island Avenue.
    One mile away, in the auditorium of a Jewish community center on Ocean Avenue, Gabriel stood a few feet from the prime minister as he read the story of Masada to a group of schoolchildren. Another member of the prime minister's security detail tapped Gabriel on the shoulder lightly and whispered, "You have a phone call. Sounds urgent."
    Gabriel stepped into the lobby. Another bodyguard handed him a cell phone.
    "Yes?"
    Shamron said, "She's alive."
    "What! Where is she?"
    "Heading your way on Coney Island Avenue. She's walking on the west side of the street. She's alone. Go get her. I'll let her tell you the rest."
    Gabriel severed the connection and looked up. "I need a car. Now!"
    Two minutes later Gabriel was speeding north along Coney Island Avenue, his eyes scanning the pedestrians on the sidewalks for any sign of Jacqueline. Shamron had said she would be on the west side of the street, but Gabriel looked on both sides in case she had become confused or frightened by something else. He read the passing street signs: Avenue L, Avenue K, Avenue J…
    Damn! Where the hell is she?
    He spotted her at the intersection of Coney Island and Avenue H. Her hair was mussed, her face swollen. She had the air of the hunted about her. Still, she was composed and cool. Gabriel could see her eyes scanning slowly back and forth.
    He quickly made a U-turn, pulled to the curb, and reached across the front seat to open the passenger-side door. Reflexively, she backed away a few steps and reached into her pocket. Then she saw it was him, and her